Thursday, April 30, 2015

Heather Gelb- A Poem

The Toxic Poet
She sits at the worn table
Feeling Inverted,
Tugging at threads of
That poke through
Simmering illusions.
She pushes down hard
On the pencil,
For all the hate
To leave her sick body,
To flow through lead
And pool on pure white
Into a jumble of words that
Transform into forgiveness,
And release the smell
Of a flowering field
Beyond right and wrong.
The smell of grace.
Brief Bio – I find that training for marathons is an ideal time for rearranging all those words in my mind into poetic thoughts and stories.

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